


Event Horizon Origins

by dracoqueen22



Series: Event Horizon [1]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Gen, M/M, Original Character(s), Origins, Pre-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of oneshots set in the Event Horizon universe depicting the backstories and origins of characters not currently canon for Transformers: Prime. Also contains backstories for canonical Prime characters such as Knock Out, Breakdown, and Starscream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Left of the Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak wasn't deprived as a sparkling. He wasn't. Except where he was. 
> 
> Inspired by Madonna's, "I'll Remember".

He remembers wandering the streets of Praxus, dazed and confused, wondering how things could have gone so terribly wrong. His life recently has been a string of unfortunate events, one thing right after the other in a never-ending line of hurt and humiliation.  
  
All sparklings should be raised with love and affection and nurturing and a kind but disciplined hand. Bluestreak can't honestly imagine why anyone would want to behave differently.  
  
He recalls his caretaker. Silverstorm wasn't necessarily unkind, but he wasn't affectionate either. Whether that was the fact his partner had abandoned them not long after they decided to apply for a sparkling or because Silverstorm didn't know how to be tender, Bluestreak will never know. Silverstorm wasn't ever cruel to him, and all of his physical needs were met. He never lacked for energon or a comfortable berth or a sturdy roof over his head to protect from the occasional acid storm.  
  
But there was always something lacking in his life, something he was certain was as equally important as all those tangible needs.  
  
He never realized that Silverstorm believed him an obligation. Never once thought that his caretaker felt he owed Bluestreak certain things. Up to a point. And once that point was reached, Bluestreak was on his own.  
  
He’d never even seen it coming.  
  
 _Coming home from yet another rejected application to join the Elite Guard, Bluestreak finds all of his belongings packed into a personal subspace trunk. Silverstorm has changed the locks, keying a new code that Bluestreak doesn’t know and assigning the systems to recognize him as a guest. One who requires permission to enter.  
  
His spark twists within its chamber, a painful enough lurch that his vents briefly stall. He has only reached his majority within the last three orns. Most wouldn’t even consider him an adult. Not really. He’s barely more than a youngling. Still new to the world and everything in it.  
  
But that doesn’t seem to matter to Silverstorm.  
  
A datapad is sitting on the trunk. Bluestreak picks it up to find that it contains only one file. It’s very formal, impersonal, explaining only that Bluestreak no longer lives there. That it’s time he accepts his adulthood and lives on his own. That he doesn’t need Silverstorm in his life.  
  
That Silverstorm doesn’t want Bluestreak in his.  
  
Bluestreak hasn’t seen his caretaker since.  
  
Understandably, he’s confused. Lost. Uncertain where in all of Cybertron he’s supposed to go. He has friends, associates even, but it feels wrong to impose upon their personal space. He’s a mech with no home, no credits, though Silverstorm was thoughtful enough to at least leave some energon. He has nothing to his name but several rejected applications to the Elite Guard and even more to come.  
  
He remembers lingering in the market, using his trunk as a seat because that's the only way to be absolutely certain no thief could whisk it away from him. He stares blankly as mechs passed him by. He knows that he has to resemble a pleasure bot. Or worse, one of the Empties from the underhalls of bright, shiny Iacon.  
  
Few mechs spare him a glance. One drops a cred chip at his pedes, like he’s a beggar desperate for a sip of energon. His doorwings droop; he hasn't the wherewithal to hold them upright.  
  
And then, someone actually stops. Bluestreak sees the white pedes before slowly looking upward, tracing over black plating and the familiar sigils of an Enforcer. He goes rigid, wary even. Wondering if he’s about to be detained, locked away like the rest of the dregs of society.  
  
“You have been here for several cycles,” the mech states to him blandly, almost as blankly as Bluestreak feels. “Loitering is prohibited here.”  
  
Bluestreak shoots to his pedes and stammers out an apology, desperate to not be jailed. He’ll never be allowed to join the Elite Guard if that happens! But when he leaps up, however, he knocks over his trunk.  
  
The Enforcer doesn’t miss the resulting sound. Raising a single optical brow, he tilts a degree past Bluestreak to look.  
  
“Or perhaps you have no other place to go,” he comments then and gives an assessing glance. “Designation?”  
  
“Bluestreak,” he answers as politely as he can manage. “I’m so sorry. I didn't know I couldn't sit here. I didn’t see any signs. Sorry. So Sorry. I'll get moving as soon as I can, sir. Please don't arrest me. I’ll just be moving now. Right now.” He reaches for his trunk.  
  
“I'd hardly take someone in when a single warning will suffice.” The Enforcer looks him over from the crest of Bluestreak's helm to the tips of his pedes. “I have seen you before. Do you often visit the gunnery?”  
  
His doorwings perk excitedly before Bluestreak can control his emotions. “I want to join the Elite Guard someday, sir.”  
  
“I seem to recall you having excellent marksmanship,” the mech says, still businesslike but now with a hint of interest in his tone.  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
The Enforcer pauses. He turns his head in such a way that Bluestreak assumes he was accessing either his memory banks or attending to a personal comm.  
  
“I also recall that your close combat skills are abysmal.”  
  
The doorwings droop again.  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“I can help with that,” the mech adds. His voice is completely even as is his gaze, but there’s something there. Some hint. Some sign.  
  
Bluestreak's spark spins out of sheer excitement.  
  
“You can? I mean, you will? I mean...” He stills, performing a systems check to regain his composure. “I’d be grateful, sir. I don't have many creds, but I have two servos, and I'll work hard. I will. I promise. I won’t let you down. I won’t.”  
  
“I know you won’t,” the mech puts in effortlessly and gestures to the trunk. “Fetch your things. You will come home with me.”  
  
Bluestreak nearly shakes with excitement and relief both. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much,” he gushes before he can stop himself. “It means so much to me, sir. It really does.”  
  
The mech looks at him with something almost like amusement. “You may call me Prowl. Sir is not required.”  
  
“Yes sir.” Bluestreak jolts at the sharp look he receives. “I mean – Yes, Prowl.”_  
  
Bluestreak remembers following Prowl back to the Enforcer's home. A martial arts studio with an attached apartment. Prowl gave him a room, gave him access codes, offered up fresh energon, and generally made Bluestreak feel welcome.  
  
For half a vorn afterward, Bluestreak lived with Prowl. He trained with Prowl. He worked on his application to join the Elite Guard. He made every effort to succeed. And he did his very best to lock away thoughts of Silverstorm.  
  
Prowl was not an openly affectionate mech either, but there were ways that Bluestreak could tell he was different. Little smiles. A hand to the shoulder. Words of praise when they were due and even when they weren’t.  
  
He was everything Bluestreak could’ve wished for in a caretaker. Everything he wished Silverstorm could have been.  
  
Prowl gave him a home. For that, Bluestreak will give Prowl his loyalty. Then. Now. For the rest of his life.  
  
Bluestreak never forgets Silverstorm, but he does archive those memories. Silverstorm is the past, best to be left behind.  
  
He is stronger without his caretaker and has nothing he needs to prove. Not to anyone save himself.  
  
***


	2. Holding on to Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something broken inside of him, but as long as he has his brother, he doesn't care. 
> 
> Inspired by Caleb Kane's "Once".

There's something broken inside of him. A glitch, perhaps, from the moment their sparks split.   
  
Maybe the rumors are true. That Sideswipe got all the charm and sanity and kindness, and he'd been left with the dregs. That when their spark split, he only got to keep a sliver of it.   
  
Sideswipe, at least, can function in society. He makes friends easily, always has. He can charm with the best of them, could charm the very bolts off a bolt-maker. He can see through a bot's very spark. It's what makes him so good at what he does.   
  
Sunstreaker can't. He doesn't understand all those subtle nuances. There's something broken inside of him, something no medic can fix.   
  
He gets his twin. It's hard not to when they can talk to each other on a spark level. When he can feel what Sideswipe feels.   
  
Other bots are a mystery. Sunstreaker doesn't understand them. Not their words or body language. Not their energy fields or binary language.   
  
There's something broken inside of him. He'll never be normal or whatever approximates as that these days. The Autobot army is full of abnormal mechs nowadays.   
  
Sunstreaker knows that Sideswipe would be a lot happier without him. Life would've been a lot easier. He knows that if their spark had not split, Sunstreaker would’ve never existed.   
  
Sideswipe is the one meant to exist. Not the defect. Not the broken one.   
  
Their caretakers tried. They honestly did. Both Tailwind and Longevity had only planned for one sparkling. One was all they could afford on their meager salaries as a shop clerk and a machinist.   
  
Tailwind and Longevity hadn’t anticipated twins. No one had, so rare even then spark-split twins were. There'd been a scramble to put Sunstreaker's half of the spark into a protoform, and even then, it had been standard issue with no frills or distinguishing marks. No _personality_. The sort of protoform handed out by some Towers-funded charity for the pathetic lowest class.   
  
A loaner, so to speak, until Tailwind and Longevity could afford to commission another. Such a thing wasn't in the stars, however. They'd only planned for one. So Sideswipe's body had all the inherited bits, everything that their caretakers had skimped and planned and gleefully designed for their sparkling.   
  
Sunstreaker was drab and boring and _common_. He hated it, loathed being in that thing for every cycle he spent in it. But the one time he'd complained, and his caretakers had given him a look, it had only taken Sideswipe pulling him aside later to explain why he should never say such things. After that, Sunstreaker attempted to rebuild his bridges, and he never spoke ill of his protoform again. But he still hated it.   
  
Sunstreaker remembers being loved and cared for. He and Sides had never wanted for anything. They had enough energon to eat, a berth to share, an education. Tailwind and Longevity were the near-perfect guardians. Sunstreaker had never felt unloved or despised for his unexpected existence.   
  
They were also barely above zeta class, and two sparklings were far more of a drain on resources than one.   
  
It had taken everything they had to get Sunstreaker a protoform of his own, one he could design and paint and specialize to his liking. But that meant upgrading. It was a waste of resources to give him a sparkling body when he was so close to needing his youngling frame anyway.   
  
For as much as Sunstreaker enjoyed carrying around a sulking Sideswipe with his larger frame, he never did shake the ill-fit feeling that he bore for several vorns. He suspected he wouldn't be comfortable until Sideswipe upgraded, too. Or maybe he was that anxious for his adult frame. He didn't know.   
  
And then the unthinkable happened. Or perhaps they should have seen it coming. But Sunstreaker was a sparkling in a youngling frame, and Sideswipe was even less mature.   
  
Longevity collapsed, over-worked and energon-starved.  
  
Their caretakers had been rationing energon carefully, often times taking it from themselves to give to their younglings. Sunstreaker had never known, never even suspected. Probably would have never known if Longevity hadn't collapsed, if his systems hadn't failed on him.   
  
And Tailwind, like all mechs who are part of a true-strength bond, soon followed his bonded. He tried; he really did. For nearly half a vorn afterward, Tailwind pushed past the pain in his spark to stay with his sparklings.   
  
They would come home after being sent out to play and find Tailwind sitting and staring at a wall, optics spiraling in and out like he was stuck in a memory loop. He'd startle at their appearance, plant an easy smile on his face, but it always felt like he was never fully with them. Like his spark yearned to be somewhere else with someone else, and no matter how much he loved his younglings, they were not Longevity.   
  
His caretakers had the sort of romance that mechs and femmes could only dream about. The love at first sight, first interface, never want anyone else.   
  
So when Sunstreaker and Sideswipe onlined one day and found Tailwind's frame cold and grey with not so much a spark flutter, they couldn't be surprised. Sunstreaker had been numb, sitting there and staring at their caretaker's unpolished and now grey frame. Sideswipe had keened like all sparklings are wont to do.   
  
Sunstreaker couldn't even comfort his own twin. He didn't know how. He understood Sideswipe's grief, could feel the loss of their caretakers, the way it left even him feeling cold. But he didn't know how to respond to it.   
  
How broken is that? So damaged he couldn't even properly mourn.   
  
Maybe it's because he didn't have time to properly process it. Sunstreaker knew the comm frequencies of a few of their caretakers' acquaintances. Afterward, it was a whirl of Things Happening. Things Happening that younglings and sparklings only saw occurring over their helms.  
  
In the end, it boiled down to one simple truth. No one wanted them. Not the femme who Tailwind and Longevity had designated as their first choice of stand-in caretaker. Not the distant relation of Tailwind's own caretaker. Not a single one of the close friends of their family group wanted to take in a pair of mismatched spark twins.   
  
Cursed, they were. Everyone said it.   
  
“Maybe if there was only one,” Cyclis had said, but the look in her optics spoke of denial no matter the hesitation in her words. “I really can't afford two.”   
  
The institution wanted to split them up. There should’ve been Cybertronians lining up to adopt them, as it was easier to adopt an orphaned mechling than it was to apply to the High Council and the All Spark.   
  
“It's fer th' best,” the mech in charge had commented, trying to be soothing but failing with every nuanced glyph of despair and aggravation. “It's hard fer anyone ta take in two at once. But if there were only one of ya...”  
  
Sunstreaker knew he should’ve agreed. Sideswipe had a better chance of being adopted. He was still in his sparkling frame. He was the normal one.   
  
For the sake of his brother, Sunstreaker should’ve let go. But he couldn't.   
  
He had refused to allow the mechs to separate them. Sunstreaker couldn't do this alone. And in the end, no one adopted them. Rather than having the institution press the issue, perhaps separating them by force, Sunstreaker left with a trunk full of their belongings and his twin at his heels.  
  
If he hadn't been so selfish, if he'd been able to let go, then maybe Sideswipe would have had a chance. It would’ve hurt; there's no doubt. But he could have been satisfied, maybe, knowing that his brother was being cared for like he deserved.   
  
But there's something broken in him. Something selfish and damaged and Sunstreaker couldn't do it.   
  
He needed Sideswipe.   
  
Still does, as a matter of fact. That will never change. Come war and Ratchet and younglings and Autobots, Sunstreaker will always need his brother.   
  
There's something broken inside of him. Something unfixable. Sunstreaker's learned to live with that fact. His existence has given him little choice in the matter. He figures as long as he has Sideswipe, he'll be able to function.   
  
And for now, that's good enough.   
  
* * *


	3. Seven Lives, Seven Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz is a chameleon, a composition of personas, so convoluted that not even he can remember who he used to be.
> 
> Inspiration drawn from 30 Seconds to Mars' "Hurricane". 
> 
> Warnings for violence, OC character death, "blood and gore"

Calumny never has the chance to scream or call for help before Razorwire's claws sink into his chassis, punching straight through thin-metal plating and into his very core, extinguishing the dank green spark in an instant. That's what happens when a killing machine turns on its master. When a puppet cuts its own strings.   
  
Calumny looks a bit like a puppet right now actually. His limp limbs dangle from his grimy frame, suspended on the end of Razorwire's servo. His optics are dim, but lingering sparks of electricity fizzle from torn wires.   
  
He is, or used to be, bigger than Razorwire by a full helm. Not that it matters now.   
  
With a shake of his servo, Calumny drops from Razorwire's claws to a discarded pile of scrap on the floor. Energon plops out of the open wound, oozing like the low-grade slag that Calumny ingested on an ornly basis.   
  
Still, there's something altogether enticing about fresh energon staining his claws. The dull blue contrasts the black of his paint and is almost iridescent in the flickering lights. It oozes over his hands, dipping between small armor plates, getting into the tiny gears and struts that form his claws. He'll have to scrub himself good to get clean again.   
  
Experimentally, Razorwire flicks his digits, sending spatters in all directions, splattering the walls and Calumny's greying frame. Crumpled on the floor, Calumny isn't even worth the effort of another kick.   
  
Razorwire crouches and tilts his helm, casually dipping a single digit into the gaping hole in Calumny's chassis. Not so much as a twitch. Definitely dead. He has maybe a klik before it's too late.   
  
It's easy enough to rifle through a mech's subspace when they're dead, though harder to do when the mech's been offline long enough for all traces of lingering energy to be gone. So Razorwire is quick about it, pulling out a datapad of access codes, a handful of creds, a sealed cube of energon, and the key to his cuffs.   
  
Yeah. He'd killed Calumny with his servos cuffed in front of him. Calumny thought he was safe like that, as though he could keep Razorwire chained so easily.   
  
Hah.   
  
Calumny should have known better. He'd had Razorwire trained to be stronger than that. It's how Razorwire had been sparked. To be a killer. To sink his claws into another bot and aim for a kill. It's what he's good at.   
  
Lips curling with disgust, Razorwire dumps the cuffs on Calumny's empty frame and takes stock of the situation. He barely has thirty creds. Enough for a ticket to Iacon maybe, but he'll need an ID chip, preferably a new ID. He can't be Razorwire the gladiator and expect to find other work. That's not the way things are run on Cybertron.   
  
He'll need a new ID. New paint. New kibble. New _everything_.   
  
He won't be Razorwire. Not anymore. Or at least, not for now. Razorwire can't imagine abandoning everything he's learned. He won't always needs his claws or his sharpened denta or the edged protrusions from his shoulders, elbows, and knee joints. But even bright, shiny Iacon has it's dark alleys and black markets.   
  
Turning on a heel strut, Razorwire leaves Calumny's grey frame behind and slips out of the apartment he's called home for his entire, if brief, existence. He won’t fight in a gladiatorial pit ever again unless he chooses to do so.   
  
Never again.   
  
o0o0o  
  
“Could ya hurry it up, mah mech?” Barter complains, straining to see over the helms of the bots lined in front of him. “I'm runnin' on a time table here, ya!”   
  
There's an assortment of agreeing grumbles behind him, other mechs and femmes trying to board the shuttle and get the pit out of this city. Things were going to the smelter faster than one could count creds, and those that could afford it were fleeing for safer territories. Barter just wanted out.   
  
Hard to do business in Slaughter City. Mechs don’t have the creds, and no one wants to trade. He needs to move to better hunting grounds before he goes broke. He isn't inclined to starving either.   
  
“You'll wait your turn,” the attendant at the front of the line growls without looking up from his datapad. “Have your IDs ready. Thing's will move a lot smoother if you do.”   
  
More grumbles from the crowd, but there is little anyone could do but wait. Barter digs around in subspace, producing his new ID as he waits. At his pedes, a single trunk serves as his only piece of luggage. There are parts in here, pieces of his last frame, a bucket of paint or two. Things he'll need to become Razorwire again if he wants or other accessories for other identities. He's got two in reserve still. He doesn't quite know what he'll need to make it in Iacon, but what's in the trunk is a good place to start.   
  
Merchants have the easiest time traveling from city to city and sector to sector. Barter is the best choice for the journey. No one ever really questions a merchant, especially one who likes to grease the cogs of society with a few slippery creds. Loosens tight-afted bots right up, they do.   
  
“What the frag is takin' so long?” one of the femmes behind Barter whispers, a rev of her engine giving proof to her agitation.   
  
“Shifter said they were looking for someone. A gladiator who might be trying to flee Slaughter City,” one of the mechs answers.   
  
Barter goes very, very still and dials up his audials. Unashamedly listening in, even as his optics watch the front of the line carefully, where the mechs standing to either side of the entrance ramp are scrutinizing each ID with the sort of intensity usually reserved for entry into the Towers.   
  
“A gladiator?” another bot asks. “Who the frag cares about those slag piles waiting to rust?”   
  
“This one apparently slagged his promoter and the bot was connected.”   
  
The femme snorts, an entirely inelegant sound of gears grinding together. “So? Since when has anyone cared about promoters either?”   
  
“Calumny had friends in high places.” The mech's voice drops low, low enough that Barter has to partition of some of his attention to actually pick up his words. “Word underground is that he was one of Windshear's pets.”   
  
Something cold flitters in Barter's spark.   
  
Windshear? As in the very same mech who whispers into the audials of Contrail, a mech of standing in the High Council?   
  
“Fool!” the first mech barks. “What would Windshear have to do with a grounder?”   
  
The femme in front of Barter gains admittance onto the shuttle, leaving Barter to scramble to hand over his ident chip to the impatiently waiting guards to either side of the ramp. One of them glares at him, and Barter feels the icy-prickle of a scan as it pours him over from the top of his flat brown helm to the boxy tip of his brown pedes. The other shoves Barter's chip into the portable database.   
  
“Designation: Barter. Residence: Altihex.” The guard pauses, wide violet optics flicking to Barter. “Long way from home, merchant. What's in the case?”   
  
Barter curls his lipplates into something like a smile, the one he always uses when he's trying to pitch a sale. “Jes a lil trade I worked out wit a buddy 'o mine. Plenty of spare parts ta go 'round here in Slaughter City, ya?”   
  
Mech on the left grunts. “Something like that.” His optics rake over Barter dismissively once again. “Not been in business long, have you?”   
  
Barter presses a palm to his chestplate. “Did mah honesty give meh away?”  
  
The mech on the right chortles but reached out with a blunt digit, poking Barter's bare shoulder. “No dealer's mark, ya?” he retorts smartly. “Might want to fix that.” His free servo shoves Barter's ident chip back at him. “Get on the shuttle.”   
  
Relief cascades through Barter's systems, unwinding cables drawn tight with tension. He executes an elaborate bow, clamping digits around the handle of his trunk as he does so.   
  
“I'll keep that in mind fer the future. Thanks, mah mechs. And remember! Timetable!”   
  
He hurries onto the shuttle before they can swat him, and the mech on the left looks like he wants to do. Barter’s trunk slaps against the back of his legs with loud, obnoxious clanks as he heads in. He won't be making any friends on this transport, but Barter doesn't need friends. He needs people to forget they ever saw his faceplate or tasted his energy field.   
  
He needs to disappear. Disappear just like Razorwire did. Razorwire who apparently is wanted for questioning and possibly murder  
  
He really fragged that one up. Still, he'd do it again in a sparkbeat. Calumny deserved to die, and no death had ever felt as sweet as Calumny's last spark whirl on his razor-sharp claws.   
  
o0o0o  
  
“Sure ya can do it?”   
  
Slipstrike's lipplates curl into a wide smirk. “Like taking energon crackles from a sparkling. The security's a joke.”   
  
His contact's smile is equally smarmy as he takes back the data chip, and it disappears into subspace.   
  
“For somethin' so easy, ya charge a ridiculous rate.”   
  
Leaning back against the metal wall, feeling the heat of the forge beyond it, Slipstrike crosses his arms over his chestplate. He tilts his helm in a way he knows is both intriguing and intimidating.  
  
“Your boss asked for the best. He got the best. He pays for the best. Or--” He pauses and gives a grin for effect. “Or, I could walk away now, you don't get the files he needs, and your boss spends the rest of his lifespan in whatever serves as prison for bright, shiny Iacon. Personally, I'd rather go to the smelter.”  
  
Something in his contact's energy field betrays his tension.   
  
“I didn't say I was rescindin' the deal.”   
  
“Good.” Slipstrike pushes himself off the wall, rolling his shoulders to ease out kinks in his lines. “Then your boss can pick up his merchandise in two orn. Same cycle. Same location. I'll take half my payment now, if you don't mind.” He holds out a servo, digits wiggling expectantly.   
  
His contact eyes him warily. “What's to stop you from runnin' away with the creds and the files?”   
  
Slipstrike's curls his faceplate into a sly grin. Really, they make it too easy.  
  
“What's to stop me from shooting you through the spark and taking it all right now?”   
  
The mech takes a noticeable step backward, only to draw himself up straighter. He flicks his wrist, pulling a cred chip out of his subspace.   
  
“Fine,” he says grudgingly. “Take your payment.”   
  
Slipstrike easily catches the chip flicked in his direction. “Pleasure doing business,” he replies, tucking it away. He lifts two digits, gesturing away from his forehead and just above his white optics. “See you in two orn.”   
  
He turns, sliding out of the alley with nary an audible place, slipping into the shadows with such ease it's like he almost vanishes. He hears his contact curse behind him, muttering about arrogant thieves. Ha. If only the mech knew.   
  
o0o0o  
  
It's not just about the paint and the kibble and changing his designation. Becoming something else, _someone_ else, is more than just altering his appearance. He has to change everything. His vocalizations. His accents. The sound his engine makes. The way he carries himself, the gestures he makes, the way he smiles.   
  
Color and design paint a picture, but acting the part makes it real. Makes whoever he is that much more legitimate. He has to be so good that he can meet the same mech as two different designations, and they wouldn't be able to tell the difference. He has to be able to fool system scanners, ident logs, and general society's perception of the various mecha involved in orn to orn life.   
  
He has to be flexible, spontaneous, and most of all, indistinguishable from every regular bot.   
  
He has to be every mech and no mech. Invisible and obvious. The smarmy merchant. The arrogant racer. The confident thief. The bloodthirsty gladiator. The uneasy mechanic. The bot-of-all-trades. But most of all, he has to be Jazz, the compilation of them all.   
  
o0o0o  
  
The moment the Enforcer steps into the building, Jazz senses a tension begin to build, tension where they had been nothing but ease and good cheer. He's hyperaware of the Enforcer's presence, though he knows that Jazz is the least morally ambiguous of his creations. Jazz is the good bot. The one who obeys all the rules, resigns himself to a boring life of archival research, and it's all good.   
  
Okay, so maybe he's snuck off to a couple of gladiatorial fights in the dark cycles of an orn. But who hasn't?   
  
Too aware of the Enforcer's presence, Jazz makes haste in uploading his observations from his shift so that he can retire to his current residence . He's tired, could use a cube of energon, and his alter-ego Velocity's got a race tonight with a thousand creds just waiting for the taking.   
  
The upload completes with a cheery ping, and Jazz casually unplugs from the console and spools his cord back into its compartment with a flick of his wrist. Time go then. He turns and comes nasal ridge to white chestplate, the prominent five-pointed symbol of the Enforcers micrometers from his lipplate.   
  
“Slipstrike, I presume?” the Enforcer says, his tone clipped and professional.   
  
Jazz takes a step backward, tilting his helm to look up into the mech's ocher visor. “Ya must be mistaken, mech,” he says with an easygoing smile, planting a servo on his hip. “My designation's Jazz.” He deftly tucks away the flutter of nervousness swirling around his spark.   
  
The Enforcer looks him over from helm to pede. “I see,” he says with that same bored, business-ness like tone. “Then you wouldn't have any knowledge of the mech responsible for illegally obtaining an item from the Prime Residence?”   
  
“Oh? Is that what had Sentinel in such a foul mood lately?” Jazz's smile broadens, and he tilts his head to the side. “I'd heard rumors. What they take? His secret stash or maybe his special case of Ultra High Grade. It _must_ have been something of importance.”   
  
Stupid, stupid fool. His vocalizer runs faster than his logic. In what universe is it smart to taunt an Enforcer?   
  
“You did not answer my question.”   
  
No humor in this one. Fraggit.   
  
Jazz tilts his chin, putting on his most serious expression and an exaggeratedly informal speech pattern. “Why no, Officer. I do not know this Slipstrike of whom ya speak. Nor do I know anything about th' illegal activity.”   
  
He's become so good at this, his spark doesn't even flutter at the lie.   
  
To be fair, Jazz knows nothing about the robbery. He's a fine, upstanding citizen of Iacon. All that thieving business is _Slipstrike_.   
  
The Enforcer stares at him, a frown deepset on his mouthplates. There's something unnerving about his stare, as though he can see right into Jazz's spark, pulling apart all the swirling layers to the core of him beneath.   
  
Part of Jazz wants to squirm in discomfort. Another part of him plants a sure grin on his face, adding an innocent twinkle to his optics. No, sir. No thieves here. None at all. Nor so much as a merchant, assassin or street racer.   
  
Finally, something in the Enforcer's rigid field unbent by a fraction. “I estimate that there is an 87% chance that you are being less than truthful.”   
  
“Only 87?”   
  
The Enforcer's doorwings perform a barely visible twitch. “You can expect my return in two decacycles, Cultural Investigator Jazz.”   
  
The last is spoken with an edge of disdain, as though the Enforcer is perfectly aware that Jazz is not his only designation.   
  
Still, he turns away with clipped, economical motions.   
  
“Do I get a designation with that promise?” Jazz calls after the mech, unable to resist goading him a bit further.   
  
The Enforcer pauses and half-turns, regarding Jazz with his inscrutable visor. There’s something to the way he looks at Jazz. Weighing. Measuring. But his frown doesn’t deepen further.  
  
“I am called Prowl,” he finally says.   
  
Jazz grins. “Be seein' ya soon, Prowler,” he drawls and turns back toward his console, ignoring the stares his fellows are casting at him.   
  
The Enforcer leaves. And despite his lingering anxiety, Jazz smirks.   
  
The game begins.   
  
* * *


	4. Take Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sunstreaker and Ratchet argue, Sideswipe makes himself scarce. 
> 
> "Goodnight and Go," by Imogen Heap is the theme song for Sideswipe/First Aid.

At the first echo of raised voices and the loud crash of something thrown and subsequently shattering, Sideswipe knew he had to make both himself and the bitlet scarce. The last thing he wanted to do was somehow end up in the middle of the usual lover's spat, and if the anger he could feel radiating from his twin was any indication, this particular _discussion_ was sure to last for joors and cause massive amounts of destruction.

“C'mon, Knock Out,” Sideswipe said as he scooped the youngling into his arms, fingers diving into narrow seams teasingly. “Let's go visit Aid, yeah?”

Shrieking with laughter, Knock Out tried to bat his hands away. “You're going to scratch my paint!” he protested.

From the next room over, Sideswipe heard a large thump and caught the tail end of such language that was not supposed to be used around youthful audials. Temper, temper there Sunstreaker.

Definitely time to flee.

Which was how he found himself tucking Knock Out at his side and making a beeline for Praxus. If previous experience was any indication, Ratch and Sunny could be at this for cycles. Oh, one of them would comm him later, make sure Knock Out's been cared for, but there’d be a chilly atmosphere around their shared apartment for a bit. Better to go somewhere with a friendlier ambiance for the time being.

First Aid and his brothers lived in a large tower on one of the middle levels, the view from their windows extending all over Praxus. Compared to the meek little apartment Sideswipe shared with Ratchet and his twin, Aid lived in a palace. He was also higher caste than Sides. Not that he and his brothers ever made a point of it. There wasn't a single one of them that wasn't in some kind of service-position.

Groove was already starting to get into politics, trying to speak to the council and any audial that would listen about more freedom for bots. Freedom outside of caste; it was practically treason. But he'd also made himself somewhat of a hero with the lower levels.

Nevertheless, Sideswipe still couldn't shake the sensation of not-belonging that hunched on his shoulders when he walked into the tower and took the lift up to First Aid's level. The long, near-hostile stares of other bots felt like scraplets on his plating. He shivered.

Knock Out, oblivious mechlet that he was, didn't notice. He happily took in the sights from where he perched atop Sideswipe's shoulders, clutching at his helm for balance.

The door opened wide when they arrived, Aid's visor lighting up at the sight of them.

“Sideswipe, Knock Out, what a pleasant surprise.” His voice was warm, genuine, and he stepped aside in wordless invitation.

“Shoulda commed,” Sideswipe said as Knock Out started squirming atop of him in his eagerness to be put down.

“Spot! Spot!” he called out, spying one of his favorite temporary caretakers.

“What am I, rusted transistors?” Sides grumbled.

But he lowered Knock Out to the floor and watched the youngling scamper straight toward Hot Spot. Where he was immediately hefted and tossed into the air. Laughter filled the room.

“You know you don't have to,” Aid murmured, watching his brother play with the youngling, who looked even smaller when compared to Hot Spot's massive bulk.

Sideswipe sidled up to his partner, nuzzling against First Aid's helm. “S'only polite.” He snaked an arm around a not-too-narrow waist, tugging the medic toward him. “Me 'n the bitlet need a place to crash for a cycle or two. Got a berth to spare?”

“For you? Always.” Amusement filtered into First Aid's energy field. “Besides, I suspect you'll have a hard time convincing Hot Spot and Streetwise to give up Knock Out anytime soon.”

The medic had a point. At the moment, Streetwise was trying to lure the youngling away with sweetened energon while Hot Spot was shooting his brother an irritated look as he plied Knock Out with a toy of some kind.

“Spoiled.” Sideswipe shook his helm and nudged Aid toward the hallway. “Well, he's in good hands. Why don't you and me sneak off for a joor or two?”

First Aid twisted around in his grasp. “Trouble in paradise?”

The red twin winced.

“When is there not?” He followed First Aid down the hall, passing the rooms of Groove and Blades – both of whom were out. “They're either going to offline each other one of these cycles, or they're going to bond in a fit of pique.”

“Ratchet is stubborn,” First Aid agreed with a sigh. He'd mentored under the older mech for several vorns. He knew the medic well.

“Yeah, well, so is Sunny. And when they clash, all I can do is make myself scarce until the scrap settles.” Sideswipe's face twisted with irritation. “Then after that, they'll be interfacing six ways from moonbase, and my poor audials can't take it.”

“Jealous?”

First Aid laughed. He tugged Sideswipe into his personal room and closing the door after the red twin.

“Why would I be?” Sides grinned, pushing the younger bot up against the door. “I've got a sexy-aft medic all of my own.”

“I suppose I should be flattered.”

First Aid's visor flashed as his blast mask slid aside. Sideswipe's hand rested on his faceplate, thumb stroking a sensitive panel.

“You know you love me. Besides, I'd take you over Ratchet any orn.”

“You're such a charmer.” First Aid rose up, brushing his mouth over Sideswipe's with a teasing tickle of charge passing between them. “Now how about that overload?”

Mmm. A much better way to spend the evening than listening to his brother argue with his partner. _Much_ better.

“Happy to oblige."

***


	5. Tango

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snapshots of a courtship. A failed courtship. Poor Sideswipe.

It's a dance by now. They've memorized all the steps, playing their parts with perfection. Sideswipe teases; First Aid rejects. Over and over and over again.   
  
“No.”  
  
Beside him, chin propped on his hand, Sideswipe winks his optics.   
  
“Why not?” he asks, all pretend innocence.   
  
First Aid doesn't fall for it for even an astrosecond. He tosses the red twin a sidelong glance.   
  
“Because you're not serious,” First Aid replies before dutifully returning his attention to the inventory log.   
  
Sideswipe leans closer, all shiny paint and rumbling vocalizer and enticing energy field.   
  
“What if I am?”   
  
First Aid pointedly steps away. Putting distance between them. Refusing to admit how flustered he is.   
  
“You're not,” he asserts with a frown. “Leave it alone.”  
  
“Sideswipe!” Ratchet bellows from the main room, helm leaning into view as he waves a wrench threateningly. “Stop bothering my apprentice!”   
  
The half-merchant, half-gladiator, all-lover chuckles and draws back.   
  
“Maybe he wants me to bother him,” Sideswipe retorts.   
  
But he does leave Aid in peace. And the junior medic releases a gust of air he hadn't realized he was holding.   
  
o0o0o  
  
He senses Sides coming before the red twin even rounds the corner of the hallway. First Aid has a brief and insane notion to dart into the nearest private room before he stiffens and raises his chin. Like the pit he's going to hide from the likes of Sideswipe.   
  
“Well, if it isn't my favorite medic!” the mech purrs, honing in on First Aid's presence like there's a beacon sitting above the medic's helm.   
  
“No, Sideswipe,” Aid says without breaking a stride.   
  
Sideswipe, predictably, sidesteps into his path. Even weighted down by crates of supplies, he has no problem gracefully getting into First Aid's way.   
  
“But I haven't asked anything yet!” The smile curving Sideswipe's mouth ought to be illegal, the way it implies how much of a good time could be had.   
  
No, no, and no. First Aid's learned his lesson. No more gorgeous bad mechs. No more of the ones that aren't good for him at all. Hot Spot would have his tail pipe. Groove will get that pitying, understanding look in his optics. Streetwise will vow revenge, and Blades will offer to bring the cuffs.   
  
First Aid tries to edge past the relentless merchant. “My answer is still no.”   
  
“You're not the least bit curious?” Sideswipe drawls.   
  
“Not a single iota,” he lies without missing a beat.   
  
Oh, he's curious. Curious and so very tempted. Sideswipe's everything he shouldn't want.  
  
Sideswipe easily shifts into his way yet again. Optics leisurely raking First Aid from helm to pede.   
  
“Y'know, you could seriously use some stress relief.”   
  
Embarrassment wars with indignation. First Aid glares.   
  
Undeterred, the red twin chuckles. “You've been around Ratchet too long,” he teases, shifting the weight of the crates from one hand to the other. “That's pure, Hatch-- Yeargh!”   
  
First Aid's visor shifts into a flat grey in surprise as a golden-plated hand hooks around Sideswipe's helm and jerk down, pulling Sideswipe off balance. He scrambles to gain his footing and nearly drops the crates.   
  
“Come on, loverbot,” Sunstreaker drawls. He nonchalantly drags his brother behind him as he storms down the hall, away from First Aid. “Leave him alone.”   
  
“But!”   
  
In their absence, First Aid shakes his head.   
  
At the very least, he can give Sideswipe credit for his persistence. It's been a vorn. He'd have thought the easily distracted mech would have given up by now.   
  
o0o0o  
  
The sudden appearance of a gleaming cube of energon in front of his optics startles First Aid. He resets his optics, powering up his visor, and stares dully at the near-magenta hue. High grade.   
  
He looks up, following the offered cube to the bot who holds it. First Aid promptly rubs a palm down his faceplate. He is in no mood to indulge the irritating twin's flirtations.  
  
“Not now, Sideswipe.”   
  
“It's high grade.” Sides wiggles the cube enticingly, his tone oddly sober. “You look like you could use it.”   
  
He has a point.   
  
First Aid all but snatches the cube from Sideswipe, then feels guilty for treating him so rudely. Then reminds himself that Sides is the epitome of irritating so he doesn't have to feel guilty about it.   
  
Frag. He really is adopting too much of Ratchet's mannerisms.   
  
He takes a deep drink of the energon – high grade indeed – to wash down his mentor's unhelpful voice and leans back against the wall.   
  
“Thanks.”   
  
“No problem.”   
  
Sideswipe doesn't leave. First Aid doesn't invite him to sit. It's dark here in this corner of the medbay, by virtue of the fact Aid has shut off all but the emergency lights. Out in the main surgery, he can still hear the steady data feed from their surviving patient. It offers little comfort.   
  
He drinks more of the high grade. It's not very comforting either. But it does drown out his processor's attempts to review, critique, and remind him of his failures.   
  
“Want to talk about it?” Sideswipe's vocalizer seems unnaturally loud in the silence.   
  
“No.”   
  
Even though First Aid is radiating _go away_ vibes from all directions, Sideswipe still invites himself to sit down. He eases into a crouch beside the medic, looking uncomfortable but not complaining about it, as Sunstreaker would have.   
  
“Y'know,” he allows, bracing his elbows on his knees, hands dangling loosely between his thighs. “Ratch is a genius when it comes to some things. Others? Not so much.”   
  
First Aid tilts his helm toward the red twin, his visor reflecting confusion.   
  
“He can fix frag near anything,” Sideswipe clarifies with a vague gesture. “Except this.” He taps the side of his helm with the same hand. “I guess that's why he and Sunny work so well. For the most part anyway. They're both emotionally crippled.”   
  
First Aid's fingers flex around his energon cube. That's a bit more about his mentor's relationship with his partner then First Aid wanted to know.   
  
“Does this story have a point?”   
  
Sideswipe's smile is slow, careful. Not at all the care-free curve he tosses at First Aid on an ornly basis.   
  
“It only seems like he shakes it off easily. But he doesn't. He takes every lost patient to spark. Even us idiot gladiators.” He thumps his chestplate, making a dull, hollow thud.   
  
“I'm not ready for this,” First Aid blurts and then draws back, hanging his helm. His energon cube is forgotten.   
  
Sideswipe lowers himself completely, stretching his legs out in front of him.   
  
“I don't think any medic ever is. I got the easy part, y'know. I rip them apart.” He tilts his head as his optics focus on First Aid. “You and Ratch put 'em back together and mourn when you fail.”   
  
It's easier to look away. “I'm supposed to be impartial.”   
  
“Slag and you know it.” Sideswipe grinds a few gears to show just how much he believes that particular piece of medical code. “Impartial medics are the worst kind. Healing's more than just the physical sometimes.”   
  
First Aid looks at the high grade and contemplates the remains of the cube. Sideswipe nudges him with a shoulder, a light clang echoing in the medbay's silence.   
  
“You got what it takes, Aid. Trust me.”   
  
Sideswipe is neither an instructor nor a close friend. He isn't Ratchet or any one of the many bots who had served as First Aid's teachers. Yet, somehow his endorsement seems to carry as much weight. Logically, this makes little sense.   
  
But the shaky smile on First Aid's face is proof of the encouragement's worth.   
  
“Thanks, Sideswipe.”   
  
“Don't mention it.” The red mech gives a blinding grin and pats First Aid on the knee, a surprisingly chaste touch, before he rises to his pedes. “Seriously. Don't. Sunny will tease me without mercy.”   
  
A light chuckle bubbles out of First Aid's vocalizer, accompanied by a genuine smile.   
  
o0o0o  
  
“Aid!”   
  
At the sound of his designation being shouted across the medbay, First Aid nearly drops his welder and definitely scores his patient's leg plating. Luckily, the mech's pain sensors are medically offline, but that's no excuse for poor work on First Aid's part.   
  
“Sorry,” he says and whips a glare over his shoulder, unsurprised to find Sideswipe striding into the main medbay as though it's own personal playground.   
  
“You're looking a bit peaked there,” Sideswipe continues, all a swagger and bright smiles. “Need some help with a polish?”   
  
“No, I don't,” First Aid replies, bending his concentration back to the mech at hand, who would like this bent strut fixed rather soon. “Thank you anyway.”   
  
Sideswipe sidles up beside him. He peers over Aid's shoulder and manages an effective loom.   
  
“You never give me an astrosecond, do you?”   
  
“Because you'd take a parsec, if you could,” First Aid retorts, amusement daring to flicker into his energy field.   
  
Sideswipe leans closer, his own field buzzing with intent. “I’d take anything you'd give me, sweetspark,” he purrs, vocal tones in a lower register that makes First Aid's plating vibrate.   
  
“Is he serious?” Aid's patient asks.   
  
“He's never serious,” the medic retorts and shifts a spare corner of his processor to address Sideswipe. “Anything?”  
  
The red mech seems oblivious to the saccharine-sweetness in Aid's tone. His fingers perform a playful walk down the medic’s right shoulder.   
  
“Whatever you ask of me.”   
  
First Aid grins. “The recycling system needs a flushing. Think you can manage?”   
  
The look on Sideswipe's faceplate is absolutely priceless.   
  
On the other side of the room, Ratchet barks out a laugh.   
  
Sideswipe performs a dramatic stagger backward. “Well played. Are all medics evil or only those in your sphere of influence, Ratch?” He winks an optic at Aid, but his question is directed at Ratchet.   
  
“Watch it or you'll be pulling transport duty next,” the head medic warns, humor lacing his tone. “I've got a nice shipment of supplies coming in soon. _Heavy_ supplies.”   
  
“The horror!” Sideswipe mock-gasps.   
  
First Aid chuckles, finally able to return his attention to his patient now that Sideswipe is sufficiently distracted.   
  
Better luck next time.   
  
***


	6. Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past is weakness; Knock Out learns this lesson the hard way.

  
It's his first mission as a legitimate Decepticon, the purple brand on his plating still stinging and smoldering. The weight of a blaster in his hands is unfamiliar, unwieldy. The mechs on either side of him are strangers with crimson optics and battle-hardened sneers. Their paint jobs are a mess of dings, scrapes, and dents.   
  
Knock Out's knowledge is limited. He has instinct and reflex, but no practical experience. If he survives this, Flatline has agreed to take him on as medic's apprentice. Like his genitor, though Flatline doesn't know it. Better if Knock Out doesn't make it common knowledge that his origins are Autobot. Worse, that his origins are _fostered_.   
  
This is his first mission, but who could have guessed it would go so wrong. That they'd barely escape with the energy converter only to come head to head with an Autobot defense team when the Autobots aren't supposed to be within megamiles of this abandoned base.   
  
And who could have expected that there would be a familiar face among those Autobots, or at least, familiar to Knock Out, who was admittedly cloistered while living in Uraya. This familiar face makes Knock Out hesitate, finger cramped on the trigger of his blaster. His spark pulses in friendly greeting, while alarm races through his circuits.   
  
Newly blue optics stare at Knock Out in utter surprise – once upon a time, those optics had been green, like the rest of his brothers. Like Hot Spot.   
  
“Knock Out!” Streetwise greets with a tone of relief and happiness, optics flashing. “You're alive! You're...” His words trail off as he notices that Knock Out is not alone. That he has fresh brands on his shoulders and Decepticons at his side.   
  
“You know the Autobot?” Knock Out's companion demands, voice ripe with suspicion, his blaster raised to fire at Streetwise and his Autobots. Their two teams are at an uneasy standstill, violence on a hair trigger.   
  
Knock Out's universe boils down to a choice, one he knew he'd have to face sooner or later. He hadn't realized it would be now.   
  
_I'm not ready for this._  
  
He lifts his blaster, aim unsteady, yet intending to incapacitate. He chose the Decepticons for a reason. He had known it could come to this.   
  
“Yes,” Knock Out says, with far more bravado than he actually feels, tanks churning. “Get out of our way, Streetwise.” _Don't make me do this._  
  
“Not happening, 'Con!” one of the Autobots snarls and takes a step forward with murderous intent.   
  
Streetwise half-turns, a bare movement, maybe to stop his companion. Maybe not.   
  
Knock Out's finger twitches. He fires and Streetwise goes down, frame twitching and smoke rising from the wound.   
  
Knock Out stares, spark spinning in his frame. His fingers relax around his weapon, which tumbles to the debris-strewn street. Around him, an exchange of blaster fire turns the atmosphere to noise and heat. Someone shouts “for the glory of the Decepticons” and dying cries ring in Knock Out's audials. He can't seem to muster the energy to reach for his blaster again, not even when a shot goes stray, clipping his plating, scoring it right near his new brand.   
  
His team wins. It's hardly a contest. They outnumber the Autobots and outpower them, too. They escape with acquired converter well in hand.   
  
Flatline agrees to take Knock Out on as his apprentice the very next orn. Somehow, the accomplishment feels hollow. All Knock Out can remember is the smoking hole in Streetwise's chassis.   
  
Later, when he's elbows deep in a Seeker moaning about a bent wing, Knock Out hears the official report. He sees the purloined Autobot casualty list. He learns that his team had done their job well, that not a single one of the Autobots had survived.   
  
He realized that his very first kill as a Decepticon had been a mech he once called friend. No, more than that. Family. Streetwise and his brothers had been family.   
  
This is the cost of his loyalty.   
  
He stares in the mirror, frowning at the Decepticon brand burned into his dark red plating. Megatron has never required that his Decepticons wear visible markers of their faction. Knock Out accepted the brands because he wanted to prove something, to himself maybe. To put his choice as something set in duryllium. Unchangeable.   
  
Knock Out reaches up, grabbing the armor of his shoulder and yanking it off. He stifles a cry of pain as sensory lines snap from the abrupt motion. He turns the panel over and over in his fingers, contemplating the brand.   
  
What would he do, he wonders, if he came faceplate to faceplate with his own genitor or his own creator? Could he pull the trigger then? Is that how far he's willing to take this?   
  
“There're easier ways to do that, you know,” Breakdown says from where he's sitting on the other side of the room, watching Knock Out.   
  
The medic-in-training frowns and turns, tossing the panel to his friend. The closest mech he has to family right now. “Buff that out for me.”   
  
Breakdown lifts an orbital ridge. “You turning Bot?”   
  
Knock Out's optics redirect to the mirror, staring at his other shoulder. He'll have to fix that panel, too. “I'll never be an Autobot.” His statement is firm, unrelenting. It's the bitter truth.   
  
But he'll be fragged if he loses himself that easily. Megatron can't have his total loyalty, not just yet.   
  
The price is still too high.   
  
****


	7. Best in Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirage likes the anonymity. Bluestreak likes to compete. Prowl likes to win.

There is anonymity in chaos. It's easy to be lost in the crowd, barely distinguishable between one mech and the next. Here, in the tight press of strangers, no one suspects that Scion is anything more than he claims to be.  
  
That under the silver and black paint, basic grade without a hint of gloss, is Mirage, heir to one of the most wealthy and influential clans in the Towers. There’s something to be said about anonymity.  
  
Mirage just likes to compete where no one lets him win. He wants to be the best by virtue of his own skills, not his caste. He wants to be recognized on his own merit. He craves that affirmation.  
  
Shooting tourneys are the best method he's found thus far. He's always been a fairly accurate shot, but once he applied himself, dedicated some time and effort to mastering the craft, he became exemplary. The next logical step was to pit himself against the skills of others renowned in their fields.  
  
For a long time, Mirage – or Scion actually – reigns supreme. He emerges at the top of the ranks, so much that his frame becomes recognizable. Weapons companies approach him for endorsement deals. He politely declines every time.  
  
He's built this reputation with his own two servos, and for Mirage, there's nothing sweeter. There's nothing that gives him a greater pride.  
  
Until the tournament at Praxus.  
  
He comes into it with confidence. The blaster feels like an extension of his hand by now, an extension of his very will, for all that it's not physically attached to his frame. Mirage cares for it with love, cleaning and oiling the metal whenever he needs to. He's been toying with the idea of naming it.  
  
There's a new name on the mouthplates of the crowd, however. A low buzz in the back of Mirage's processor as they whisper it to each other. Mirage doesn't know this “Bluestreak”. Has never met the mech or seen him really.  
  
He's heard the rumors, has seen how fast this mech has climbed up in the planet-wide rankings. How he's pitted himself against the champions of every city-state and can outshoot even the best of the Elite Guard's soldiers. Part of Mirage feels that this Bluestreak doesn't really exist. It seems impossible.  
  
Until the tournament at Praxus.  
  
To Mirage's completely bafflement – and mortification – by the end, he stands at the scoring board and finds himself in second place. Second place. And he didn't miss the top score by a small margin, oh no. He's fifteen fragging points behind this “Bluestreak”. When it comes down to it, the unknown mech scored three more pinpoint, dead center shots than Mirage had.  
  
It's frag near unbelievable.  
  
Mirage shakes his helm, turning away from the board, already hearing the whispers starting, the excited mutterings. The crowd, the fans, are surprised. Scion has slipped to number two? They can't believe their optics.  
  
Frankly, neither can Mirage.  
  
“I don't believe this,” he mutters, pushing his way out of the crowd surrounding out the score board. “Who the frag is this Bluestreak anyway?”  
  
“A supremely gifted sharpshooter, if I'm not mistaken.”  
  
As the question had been intended as rhetoric, Mirage whirls at the sound of the unexpected answer. An Enforcer is standing behind him, a curl of amusement to his mouth, elegant doorwings hitched high and tight behind him.  
  
Mirage eyes the Enforcer, wondering why the mech had chosen to speak up.   
  
“That's a given,” he replies cautiously. “I was curious, however, as to his identity.”  
  
“Does it matter?” the Enforcer tilts his head, his gaze intently raking Mirage from helm to pede, as though inspecting him. “Does a mech's origins dictate whether or not his proficiency matters in a certain skill?”   
  
Mirage has the suspicion this Enforcer knows good and well who Scion really is.  
  
“Nothing of the sort,” Mirage retorts and draws himself up straight.  
  
Word games? _Please_. Mirage grew up in the Towers. They practice word games for morning rations, perfected them at the afternoon refueling, and dueled for glory after the evening sip of high grade.  
  
“General curiosity is my intention,” Mirage continues, stepping closer, optics cycling thoughtfully. “I'd simply like to meet the mech who has so effortlessly outshot me this orn.”  
  
The Enforcer inclines his helm. “Eager for a rematch?”  
  
Mirage chuckles, making a show of examining his long, slender fingers. “I am always interested in testing myself.”  
  
“One would think you'd have had enough of that back home,” the Enforcer replies, and his vocal tone is heavy with implication.  
  
Mirage is certain of it now. The Enforcer knows who he is. At the very least, he knows that Scion is not his true designation. He might not recognize that Scion is Mirage of the House Argent, but he knows that Scion is a fake designation.  
  
“Or perhaps that’s why you attend events such as these,” the Enforcer continues, his tone light but his words somehow incisive. “It is amusing for you to be around those less fortunate than yourself.”  
  
It takes great effort for Mirage to keep his reaction from showing on his face or in his energy field. He draws himself up straight, optics cycling down.   
  
“I attend these events because the only true measure of one's talent is to test it against those who exceed in that particular field.”  
  
He stares at the Enforcer, daring the mech to continue their game.  
  
“Prowl! Prowl! I won first place! Can you believe it? That's not what I expected at all!” A gunmetal grey mech bounces toward them, one hand raised in the air and waving around the platinum trophy that served as his award. “The competitors here were the best of the best, and I outshot them! Think the Elite Guard will take me now?”  
  
True amusement flickers across the Enforcer's field. Or Prowl as the mech's been identified.   
  
“Congratulations, Bluestreak,” he says as the mech all but shoves the award in front of his optics. “And if the guard judged you on marksmanship alone, you know you'd find yourself accepted in an astrosecond. Your hand-to-hand, however, still needs work.”  
  
The Praxian mech – Bluestreak – doesn't let that practicality dim his enthusiasm. His doorwings quiver with it.   
  
“But I'm getting better. You said so yourself.”  
  
“Indeed, I did.” Prowl's optics flick to Mirage briefly before he grips Bluestreak's arm and gently turns the grey mech toward the noble. “I don't believe you've met Scion.”  
  
Bright blue optics cycle outward. “Scion?” Bluestreak's grin is near-blinding as he sticks out a servo in introduction. “Wow. You're the mech that's topped the lists for the past hundred vorns!”  
  
“I am,” Mirage replies and gingerly takes the offer. “And you are Bluestreak, I assume. Congratulations.”  
  
Bluestreak beams. “Thanks! I didn't actually expect to win so it came as a big surprise. I certainly didn't think I'd outscore you. Everyone knows that Scion is the best.”  
  
Strangely, Mirage feels his faceplate heat with an unaccustomed modesty.   
  
“Was,” he corrects. “It's an inevitable truth that someone better always comes along. How long have you been in training? Who was your instructor?” He can't help his curiosity.  
  
Bluestreak's behavior makes him seem like he's little more than a youngling, but he'd have to be an adult to take part in this particular sharpshooting circuit. Even so, he must be a very young adult. Perhaps only a vorn or so into his majority?  
  
Bluestreak's doorwings flutter in abashment. “I didn't have an instructor. I just sorta tried it one day and found out I was good at it.”  
  
This time, Mirage can't hide his astonishment. He'd been defeated by an untrained amateur? Words cannot express his shock.  
  
“I have been tutoring him on the appropriate guidelines and the more in-depth knowledge, but otherwise, he hasn't received any formal training,” Prowl adds, and if Mirage doesn't know any better, he'd say that the straight-backed Enforcer is smirking with pride.  
  
“That is certainly impressive,” Mirage finally manages. “Natural talent is very rare.”  
  
Bluestreak grins affably. “I still think I'd like to study under an instructor, too. Learn something intuition's not telling me. Who was your instructor?”  
  
Mirage inwardly winces.  
  
“Perhaps we could save this conversation for another location?” Prowl suggests smoothly, tossing Mirage a lingering look. “Over a cube of high grade?”  
  
Mirage tilts his helm, scanning the Enforcer from helm to pede. “Are you inviting me?”  
  
“Of course!” Bluestreak says before Prowl can get in another word. “There's a great place within a few kliks of here. I'd love to chat more with you, Scion. And I think Prowl would, too.” Here Bluestreak gives the Enforcer a rather sly glance that completely belies his innocent appearance.  
  
This is not a good idea.  
  
Logically, Mirage should turn them down. Prowl suspects and/or knows who Scion is. He may choose to use these against Mirage. Though in what manner, he isn't sure yet. Rumors of him gallivanting around the commoners would make his creator overheat with rage. As would the knowledge that he's testing himself against so-called “inferiors.”  
  
It’d be in Mirage's best interest to bid his goodbyes, turn on a pede, and pretend he never saw the Enforcer or his youngling sharpshooter.  
  
“Scion is probably a busy mech, Bluestreak,” Prowl says, placing a hand on the younger mech's shoulder, vocal tones heavy with practicality. “I doubt he has time to refuel with either of us.”  
  
Bluestreak's doorwings droop with obvious disappointment.   
  
Mirage's optics cycle down. That sounds like a challenge to him.  
  
“On the contrary,” he insists almost brightly, tilting up his helm with defiance. “I have time to spare. In fact, let's make it my treat. In honor of your wins today, Bluestreak.”  
  
It's Mirage's turn to smirk, but somehow, judging by the victorious gleam in Prowl's optics, he feels he's only sauntered right into the Enforcer's hands.  
  
Well played. Well played indeed.  
  
***


	8. Not Quite Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Aid meets Ratchet for the first time. Tremble in fear.

Standing outside the ramshackle building on the distant edge of civilization, First Aid feels like someone has played a very unfunny joke on him. Surely, this isn't a clinic. Surely, they don't actually perform medical procedures in such a place.  
  
There's rust on the eaves! It's leaning dangerously to the left, and the sign is crooked. There are noticeable energon stains on the ground outside, and it looks like someone has pummeled the front of the building.  
  
The street itself isn’t in much better condition. Sure, the buildings are still standing, but that’s almost the extent of it. The fronts are mostly blackened or at the very least severely scorched, as though from a long ago fire no one bothered to clean up after, and there is detritus and what looks like rust-dust covering every single molecule of roadway. The visible alleyways are all choked with trash and other cast-offs, and Aid is certain the building at the corner – the lone bright and reasonably clean one – is actually a brothel.  
  
First Aid glances back down at his datapad yet again. Once more verifying the address given for his practice assignment. It seems he’s at the correct place, but...  
  
“You look a little lost,” a voice comes out from behind him. “Forget to update your navs or something?”  
  
First Aid nearly crawls out of his plating and whirls to face the speaker. He comes faceplate to… well, chestplate with a bright red mech. He leaps back a pace, tilting his helm up.  
  
“I'm not lost,” he says with a touch of indignity. “I think someone has given me a wrong address, however.”  
  
His optics glance over the mysterious mech's frame. Red plating has been polished to perfection, every inch gleaming in the pale overhead light. Yet, there's something to the way he carries himself, a lazy grace perhaps, that suggests gladiator. Except for the bright merchant mark emblazoned on his right shoulder panel.  
  
The stranger gives First Aid a slow, lazy grin. The sort that Streetwise keeps telling Aid to be suspicious of. Dangerous smirks, he calls them. A sure sign that a bot's up to no good.  
  
“Maybe I can help. What ya looking for?”  
  
First Aid holds out his datapad. “Ratchet's clinic.”  
  
The red mech lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Then you've come to the right place.” He pauses, optics raking First Aid from helm to pede. “You don't look broken to me. What would you need with the Hatchet?”  
  
“The... _Hatchet_?” First Aid gives the mech a blank stare.  
  
The merchant (or gladiator) grins.  
  
“You _really_ aren't from around here.” He peers at Aid and then circles around the medic-in-training. “Nah, you're higher caste. Third tier at least.” One finger taps his chin.  
  
First Aid bristles, optics cycling down. “You can't tell that kind of thing just by looking.”  
  
Standard parts, after all. Unless the mech is so high class he lives in the Towers, but they never deign to set pede in commoner territory.  
  
“I can. It's one of my specialties.” The stranger cocks his head. “Why're you slumming it?”  
  
“I'm a working class mech, I'll have you know. I'm not slumming it,” First Aid snaps, drawing himself up straight.  
  
He won't let a little thing like being a whole helm shorter intimidate him. Hot Spot's two helms taller!  
  
“I have a legitimate reason for being here.”  
  
Or he would, if his directions hadn't been so wrong. He's still not entirely sure that this is Ratchet's clinic. No mech should be performing maintenance in that ramshackle building, much less surgery.  
  
The stranger laughs again, clapping a hand on First Aid's shoulder. “Oh, my mech, Ratchet’s gonna chew up a pretty thing like you and spit you out like rusted nails.”  
  
First Aid splutters, ducking out from under the merchant's unwelcome advance. Pretty? And he seriously doubts his instructor would send him to Ratchet if the medic were someone to fear.  
  
This is, of course, when the door to the disaster-waiting-to-happen slams open with a creaky rattle. First Aid whirls and a hand lands on his shoulder again, jerking him backward. He stumbles, backplate smacking into a chestplate, just in time to avoid being trampled by a very angry, very yellow mech as he storms out of the so-called clinic.  
  
Said mech's energy field radiates fury and just an edge of murderous intent that makes Aid want to back up to a safer distance. He would too if his exit wasn't being blocked by the nameless merchant behind him, a hand firmly on his shoulder.  
  
“Yo, Sunny! Where are you--”  
  
“Out!” the yellow mech snarls without so much as a backward glance, stomping pedes leaving prints in the dusty street. His hands are clenched at his sides, plating clamped down firmly.  
  
Oh, he's furious. Definitely.  
  
“But--”  
  
Once again, the red bot’s words are cut off as another mech makes an appearance, this time in the doorway of the dangerously leaning edifice. First Aid watches with the sort of mouth-gaping awe one gives to a shuttle collision in midair.  
  
The red and white mech, a medic's sigil emblazoned between the doors perched on his chestplate, snarls. He’s positively vibrating with fury.  
  
“Sunstreaker, you get your slagging aft back here right now!” the medic hollers at a volume that First Aid's instructor would envy; indeed, they probably heard him all the way in Praxus. “I'm not through with you!”  
  
Yellow mech – Sunstreaker – neither bothers with a verbal response nor turns around to acknowledge that he's been summoned.  
  
“Trouble in paradise?” the merchant asks, tone amused and probably a tad bit suicidal as no mech in their right mind should get between those two.  
  
The medic shifts his potent glare to a new target, namely the mech behind First Aid. Aid, in turn, tries to make himself very small and thinks invisible thoughts.  
  
“Shove it up your exhaust, Sideswipe,” the medic growls and whips around on a pede, storming back into the clinic.  
  
The door slides shut with an indignant huff and squeak of ungreased gears.  
  
First Aid is at first too stunned to move.  
  
Behind him, the merchant – Sideswipe – pats him on the shoulder before finally removing his hand.  
  
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” he comments pleasantly. “C'mon, I'll introduce ya to Ratchet.”  
  
First Aid whirls around. “That...?”  
  
“Was Ratchet, yeah. He's a cuddly cybercat.” Sideswipe laughs, his smile curving up his lipplates. “He's got the bedside manner of a rabid turbofox, but we love him anyway.”  
  
Suddenly, he understands why Buildup had smirked so brightly when giving him this assignment. Aid stares dumbly as Sideswipe heads for the door and gives it a little kick when it doesn't immediately open. He gestures for Aid to precede him, head cocking as First Aid hesitates.  
  
“You're not scared, are you?” Sideswipe asks, shuttering one optic.  
  
Scared? Hardly. Wary, yes. But not afraid.  
  
Clutching his datapad, First Aid holds up his helm and steps inside. He half-expects for the interior to resemble the exterior, eying each inner support for noticeable cracks, rust stains, areas of corrosion...  
  
The scent of cleaner and the sharper odor of welding attacks First Aid's olfactory sensors. It's also bright inside, brighter than the dim public utilities outside. And... it's clean, almost obsessively so.  
  
There's a small waiting area, no one occupying the seats at present. There's a counter, dividing said area from the surgery room and med berths beyond. Some of the equipment Aid can see is outdated. Serviceable but outdated. And there are other pieces that look to be handmade or cobbled together from bits and pieces.  
  
The white and red medic First Aid had seen earlier is nowhere in sight, but there's another medic, one in grey armor with blue accents, who is currently wiping down the berths.  
  
“Oh, Ratchet!” Sideswipe singsongs, swaggering ahead of First Aid with another one of those half-opticed shutters. “I have something for you.”  
  
“Not interested,” comes the gruff snarl from just out of sight. “Put it back where you found it before the guard comes sniffing around here again.”  
  
Sideswipe laughs, like nettling grumpy medics is his idea of a good time. “But it wandered here of its own accord. All bright optics and eager servos and ready to learn.”  
  
There's a pause. Aid leans around Sideswipe, peering into the clinic. The grey medic gives him a brief, appraising glance.  
  
Ratchet makes an appearance then. He shuffles out of a back room, a suspicious gleam in his optics.  
  
“Did Buildup send you?” he asks, or barks rather.  
  
“Yes, sir.” Aid holds out his datapad. “Designation: First Aid. I was told to complete my practical here.”  
  
Ratchet waves off the datapad and shifts his attention back to Sideswipe. There’s a very dangerous look on his face.  
  
“Don't you have some work to do?”  
  
“This is much more interesting.” The merchant leans on a nearby medberth as if he hadn’t a care in the world.  
  
“That wasn't a suggestion.”  
  
“Fine, fine.” Sideswipe levers himself back upright and tosses a grin at First Aid. “Nice meeting ya. See you around.”  
  
“Not if you're lucky,” Ratchet mutters and returns his attention to First Aid, sweeping a gaze over the younger mech from top to bottom. “This is a free clinic. You don't get paid. You probably won't get any thanks, and my clientele ensures you'll probably be in danger from one orn to the next. Still want to do this?”  
  
None of that sounds appealing at all. Aid doesn't care so much about the not getting paid, or the thanks, as neither are why he choose becoming a medic over a civil servant position. But the danger aspect is a bit off-putting.  
  
“It's not a matter of want, sir,” First Aid replies, tucking his datapad into subspace. “I was assigned here.”  
  
Ratchet huffs. “Don't matter what the paperwork says. This place is volunteer only. I told Buildup to send me only those, fraggit. I don't have time for soft-sparks or idiots or amateurs.”  
  
“Then why are you accepting students?” First Aid frowns.  
  
“Need the creds. Free clinics don't pay for themselves.”  
  
In other words, Ratchet accepts trainees like First Aid, teaches them, and the Academy will send him a stipend. How very practical of him.  
  
Ratchet flicks his hand at First Aid. “So that's how it is. I'm sure you know where the door is.” He turns away.  
  
“But...” Aid lifts his chin. “This is where I was assigned, sir.”  
  
“And I'm telling you that you have other options.” Ratchet pauses and moves to eye him. “I'm not wasting my time on some soft-shell that's going to quit halfway through.”  
  
First Aid doesn’t glare. Not quite.  
  
“I've never abandoned anything, sir.”  
  
This isn't the ideal location, and his brothers would undoubtedly prefer if he did pick another clinic. Specifically, one that’s safer and staffed by kinder medics.  
  
But Aid had asked Buildup to assign him to the best, and Buildup had given him to Ratchet. No matter his instructor's sometimes questionable methods, First Aid believes that the mech wouldn't have sent him here just for a joke.  
  
“I want to take this assignment, sir,” First Aid adds, just in case his previous statements weren't clear.  
  
“I'm not a sir,” Ratchet retorts, but it's almost half-sparked. “Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you. And call me, Ratchet.”  
  
“Yes, si-- Ratchet.” First Aid's mouth twitches toward a smile, but he doesn't let it slip. His new mentor doesn't seem to have much of a sense of humor.  
  
Ratchet gives him another searching glance before shaking his helm.  
  
“All right, newbie. I'll give you a tour, go over some basics, and then I'll see what kind of useless knowledge they stuffed into your processor at that overblown university. That way we can get rid of any bad habits.”  
  
Aid follows the other medic before he can convince himself this is a very bad idea. His brothers probably won't be happy. Hot Spot might throw a fit. Blades would follow him next time, rotors quivering over protectively. Groove would hover. Streetwise would investigate sneakily.  
  
But they won't stop him.  
  
This is First Aid's choice after all.  
  
***


	9. Creak in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak meet Jazz. Jazz meet Bluestreak's blaster.

**Title: Creak in the Night  
Universe: TF Prime, Event Horizon, pre-series  
Characters: Bluestreak, Jazz, Prowl  
Rating: T  
Description: Bluestreak, meet Jazz. Jazz, meet Bluestreak's blaster. **  
  
Bluestreak's optics snap online. He jolts out of recharge. The glow from his optics lights up his room. It’s darkened, save for the emergency light over the door.   
  
Something had woken him up. What was it?   
  
He sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of his berth. Every sensor is primed and waiting. There. A noise. From the common room?   
  
Optics flashing, he switches them to a dimmer band and reaches for his blaster, always nearby. Not that there's a lot of crime to be found in Praxus, especially in the neighborhood where Prowl resides. But it never hurts to be careful.   
  
He opens the door, metal sliding aside silently, and peers into the dark commons area. There are a few emergency lights across the floor. Praxus is the height of society, but sometimes, the power fluctuates. Prowl won't say why, but Bluestreak has his suspicions.   
  
Cybertron's running short on energon. No one wants to admit it, but Bluestreak can tell. Riots in the streets. More and more bots becoming Empties. The price of energon climbing steeply orn by orn. It's not unaffordable yet, but it's no longer cheap. Or maybe that's just in Praxus.   
  
Gritting his denta, Bluestreak forces his thoughts back on track. Nothing and no mech in the commons room. Not hiding behind the chairs or the flat vid-screen.   
  
Movement.   
  
His optics swing to the left. There. The refueling area.   
  
Bluestreak brings his blaster to his shoulder, finger wrapped around the trigger. He's got more than enough plasma bolts. But waste not, want not. He's going to make every shot count.   
  
His steps are silent. Prowl's taught him very well.   
  
He peers around the edge of the partition dividing the commons from the refueling area. There's a mech rifling around in their cabinets! The gall!  
  
Optics cycling down, Bluestreak aims and fires without missing a beat, the shot smacking into the back of the mech's right knee and making him crumple to the floor. A muttered curse escapes the thief, energon splattering a bright blue across the floor.   
  
“Lights on forty percent,” Bluestreak orders, the overhead lights immediately illuminating the space and giving him a better view of the downed thief.   
  
Bluestreak steps fully into the refueling area. He never lowers his blaster, this time aiming it at the mech's dark helmet. A visor is dim from pain.   
  
“Who are you?” Bluestreak questions, but it’s nothing less than a pleasant-faced demand. “Not anyone can hack Prowl's locks, you know. Or decipher his codes. And he doesn't hand out his keycodes to anyone. So who are you, mech?”   
  
“Slag!” the mech yelps, clutching at his leg and trying to stem the leaking energon. Bluestreak managed to sever a hydraulic line, too. Mech won't be walking on that leg until he sees a medic. “You must be Bluestreak.”   
  
That's not convincing enough. Plenty of mechs around here know that Prowl picked up a stray by that name.   
  
“How do you know who I am?” he asks again, not quite as pleasantly. Though the mech could lie easily, Bluestreak wants to see what kind of slag he might make up.  
  
“Prowl told me.”   
  
Bluestreak ventilates loudly. He doesn’t even dignify that.  
  
“And how do you know, Prowl?” His tone is warm, nice even. “Did he arrest you once upon a time?”  
  
The thief laughs, his visor brightening to a pale blue. “You don't know how close you are ta the truth, youngling.”   
  
His doorwings quiver. Indignation flares through his energy field before he clamps it down. His voice when he responds is calm, controlled. Too much like Prowl’s for all the tone is agreeable.  
  
“I'm not a youngling,” Bluestreak corrects.  
  
The stranger just snickers. Like he hasn’t just been shot in the leg and isn’t laying on the floor.   
  
“Ya look like one,” he replies, all smug smiles and bright visor.   
  
“Whatever you say. You’re only stalling anyway”   
  
Bluestreak shrugs and clicks on the targeting for the blaster, not that he needs it. He just wants the thief to know he means business, and that's never clearer than when the red cross glints on the mech's forehelm.   
  
“You never told me why you’re here.”  
  
The thief grins wider of all things, relaxing despite the grip he has on his leaking knee. “I have a standing invitation.”   
  
“No,” Bluestreak disagrees, so pleasant, so deadly. “I don’t think so.” He’s just about to pull the trigger again.  
  
“Whoa!” the thief yelps, free hand reaching out, as though trying to ward a blow. “I'm not lyin', Blue. Just ask Prowl if ya don't believe me. I know he's here.”   
  
Bluestreak never takes his optics off the intruder, but if the mech's going to leak all over the floor, Prowl deserves to know why. And it's easier to question bots when they're alive.   
  
\--Prowl?--  
  
That half-nanosecond of inattention was apparently an invitation in the thief's datapad. He springs, a miraculous feat considering the state of his leg, and Bluestreak yelps. The stranger's too fast.   
  
They collide with a loud crash of metal on metal. Bluestreak squeezes off a bolt that goes wide, making a smoking hole in the ceiling as they both hit the ground.   
  
“ _Never let go of your weapon._ ” Prowl's words echo in the back of his processor.   
  
Bluestreak clings to his blaster and lashes out. He jerks up a knee, slamming it against the joint he'd shot out earlier.   
  
The thief howls, avoids his punch, and tries to pin his arm across Bluestreak's neck. His doorwings are pinned beneath him, and it hurts like the pit but endure. That's another one of Prowl's lessons. Sometimes, a bot has to suffer a little pain, but he can't let it become a distraction. Pain will heal in time. Offlining is a whole different matter.   
  
“Just listen fer a minute!” the thief gasps out, fans working hard.   
  
Bluestreak's answer is to buck upward, trying to throw the smaller mech off of him, not that there's a huge difference between their sizes. The thief is shorter, but he's heavier. And wily. Mech feels like he's got limbs everywhere, and the arm across Bluestreak's neck is compressing a few necessary fluid lines.   
  
He snatches at the thief's lateral plating, digit working into a gap in the mech's armor and curling around what feels to be an energon line. A main one, too, judging by the thickness of it.   
  
Above him, the thief tenses. He isn’t nearly so friendly and smug now.  
  
“Ya wanna let go of my cable, mech?”   
  
Bluestreak's neck is crushed, but his vocalizer works just fine. “Ya wanna get off me, thief?” he retorts, copying the mech's strange speech patterns.   
  
“What in Primus' name is going on here?”   
  
Bluestreak nearly leaps out of his plating. He tilts his helm back, getting an upside down view of his mentor.   
  
Above him, the thief also looks up at Prowl.   
  
Neither says a word.   
  
Prowl's arms are crossed over his chassis, his doorwings hiked up high with irritation. He's been pulled out of a deep recharge, and Bluestreak knows how much his mentor despises that. Interrupted defrags tend to leave his processor with loose ends, and Prowl loathes that almost as much as he does criminals.   
  
“Jazz, get off my ward. Bluestreak, please don't attack our guests.”   
  
“Guest!?”  
  
He can’t decide if he yelps or splutters.  
  
“Ward!?”   
  
The thief – Jazz apparently – takes a click but then laughs. He does as Prowl commands, rolling off and gingerly hopping up on one leg.   
  
He offers a servo to Bluestreak as well.   
  
Bluestreak gives him a look, but under Prowl's watchful optics, he reaches up and takes it. The thief's fingers lingers, gripping Bluestreak's and refusing to let go.   
  
“I apologize for not telling you about Jazz sooner,” Prowl says as Jazz finally moves off and Bluestreak puts some much needed distance between them. Prowl then shifts his optics to Jazz with a stern glare that Bluestreak knows quite well. “And I seem to recall having a conversation with you about visiting at unseemly times.”  
  
Jazz grins lazily, a slow slide of lip components. “Since when do I obey a schedule?”   
  
“Try.” Prowl shifts his attention back to Bluestreak, optics sweeping over him in quick assessment. “Are you injured?”   
  
“No.”   
  
Frag, that came out a lot more sullen than Bluestreak had intended it to. But he shouldn't have let Jazz pin him so easily. How's he going to be an Enforcer if he can't subdue one stupid thief?   
  
Jazz lifts a finger in the air. “Um. I'm shot. In the leg.”   
  
“Don't be upset, Bluestreak,” Prowl insists, not even sparing Jazz a glance. “Jazz has significantly more martial experience than you.”   
  
“It hurts. A lot,” Jazz states a bit louder this time.   
  
Bluestreak instantly brightens at the pleased gleam in Prowl’s optics. He gives Jazz his own version of a smug grin. It’s unsurprisingly chipper.   
  
“Serves you right. Sneaking into someone's house like that.”   
  
Jazz pulls a face. “You're just mad 'cause I pinned ya.” Jazz tilts his helm up and down, making a long, lingering show of looking Bluestreak over from helm to pede. “Which I wouldn't mind doin' again if ya ever feel partial to a rematch.”   
  
Bluestreak's wings hike upward, going rigid. Unexpected anger bubbles up inside of him like carbonated energon.   
  
“Jazz, don't provoke him,” Prowl snaps, sliding between them. “Bluestreak, an Enforcer must remain calm at all times.”   
  
Bluestreak presses his lip components together but somehow remains silent. He forces himself to take a step backward. Prowl shifts, giving Jazz a firm look. Bluestreak glances away.  
  
Jazz, nonplussed, lifts his pectoral girdle and drops it. “I meant what I said. Mechlets got good instincts for Metallikato.”   
  
Bluestreak suspects that training isn’t what he had in mind. He's naïve, not stupid. Still, he does want to learn, and if Jazz is offering...   
  
“Not until you've mastered Circuit-Su,” Prowl says before Bluestreak can so much as indicate his interest.   
  
Ambition flattened, Bluestreak droops.   
  
“But--”  
  
“Return to recharge, Bluestreak.”   
  
Again, Prowl cuts him off, his door panels twitching, the only indication of his mood.   
  
Prowl's very annoyed.   
  
Bluestreak barely even hesitates. “Yes, sir.” He does pause then and glances at Jazz. “What about...?”  
  
“Oh, I'll take care of him.”   
  
The smile Prowl tosses Bluestreak is just this side of scary. He's suddenly glad he's not in Jazz's position, though the thief doesn't seem to notice his predicament.   
  
“Good,” Jazz says. “Cause I'm leakin' energon everywhere.”   
  
“You will mop that up later.”   
  
Prowl grabs Jazz's arm, pulling the thief toward Prowl's dojo, which is connected through the common room.   
  
“Why me?” Jazz whines playfully. “Bluestreak's the one that shot me.”   
  
“If you'd used the door like mechs who don't habitually break the laws, he would not have shot you.”   
  
Jazz vents loudly, a fake noise of indignation. “I'm a fine and upstanding citizen of Cybertron, Prowl!”   
  
Somehow, Bluestreak severely doubts that.   
  
“I think Slipstrike would argue otherwise,” Prowl retorts with a note of humor Bluestreak rarely hears.   
  
Then the two of them are gone, leaving Bluestreak with a hole in their ceiling, spilled energon on the floor, and an interrupted recharge.   
  
Jazz, huh? Guess he'll have to start pestering Prowl for some answers.   
  
***

**Author's Note:**

> Tentatively marking this complete, though if random ideas come to me, I will surely add them on to here. Thanks for reading!


End file.
